All Screwed Up

By Michael Nsonwu

Introducing my book, "All Screwed Up", A Revealing and insightful autobiography,offering an interesting point of view about our society and prisons.

It is the story of of one man's quest for justice, the anguish the despair, the abject feelings of rejection and the final realization of the fundamental spiritual truth:

"You Cannot enclose totality in thought. It is beyond you. You are subject to "it " - It is not subject to you. The complexity of ALL and all is immense beyond calculation, beyond measure. You do not measure it. It measures you. All your efforts of comprehension wind up being merely reflections of your own limited self".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Nsonwu
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465903990

Michael Nsonwu

Like most good stories, one must start at the beginning – 1959.It was an important year. In January, the Cuban capitalist dictator Batista resigned and fled to Miami, paving the way for Fidel Castro, the rebel leader, to move in and capture Santiago. Upon taking over, Castro emphasised that his revolution in Cuba was humanistic rather than communistIn April, Mao Tse Tung resigned as China’s Head of State in favour of Liu Shao-chi, but remained chairman of the Chinese Communist Party.In June, Singapore became independent, with Lee Kuan Yew as Prime Minister of the republic.On July 5th, President Sukarno dissolved the constituent assembly of Indonesia, moving steadily to a more authoritarian regime.And a couple days later, on July 7th, Michael Oguzie Nsonwu was born in the bleak industrial town of Blantyre, just outside Glasgow, Scotland.In contrast to Nigeria’s 140 million people; Blantyre boasts a population of 17,000, the streets rife with gangs and dereliction. Blantyre is best known as the birthplace of David Livingstone (“Dr Livingstone, I presume?”) the famous explorer and missionary. But, not so well known as the birthplace of me.In fact, of all the many historic names above, who the hell is Michael Oguzie Nsonwu?

Book preview

All Screwed Up ~ Michael Nsonwu

All Screwed Up

Michael Nsonwu

Copyright 2001 by

Michael Nsonwu

Smashwords Edition

Prologue

The first three chapters deal with the author’s history and the attack on him by his colleagues.

The remaining five chapters represent the fallout after the killing of an innocent African inmate by overzealous and prejudiced prison officers, and show the radical, emotional and spiritual changes the experience brought on the author.

Identifying more with the rehabilitative format in Pentonville prison, he becomes something of a hero in his compassionate understanding of their cause and his unorthodox approach towards their rehabilitation. This causes considerable envy among his peers, as he is one of the few prison officers that inmates go to great lengths to seek out for moral and professional support.

At the end of the day, concerned with the leadership power Michael wields over the inmates, who are keen to subject themselves to his approach to justice and rehabilitation, his fellow officers close ranks against him, intending to remove him from the system. This appears to be the motive of the brutal beating to which he was subjected in the first chapter.

The book gives a step by step chronological guide to the further frustrations Michael encounters in his every effort to seek redress, all the way up to the High Court where, although his case was filed, to this day he has not been accorded a hearing.

This appalling indictment against one of the most civilised penal systems in the world is set against the background of a European society which prides itself as being one of the most tolerant in the world.

Acknowledgements

This book took 13 years to get to this point, during this time I have been blessed with three wonderful children, Nina, Kiki and Michael III.

Meanwhile we have seen society deteriorate and sadly some of the predictions in the book have come true.

I would like to acknowledge the following:

Dilibe Onyeama for his wonderful help.

Munir Zaman for his belief and help in making this real.

Toby Osbourne for his fine editorial skills.

My late father Michael Oguzie Nsonwu, Ichie Onyeukwu Oka Ome I of Amucha, for being my father in every sense of the word.

And finally to the source of all creation, my father who art in heaven, who in every culture and race is named differently but yet is the same.

Copy 2001 Michael O. Nsonwu

All Rights Reserved

All Screwed Up

by Michael Nsonwu

Everybody has a story to tell. A man’s story is his very life. Now I, personally, have this golden opportunity to present my life, my case before the court of World Public Opinion - to the end that the power of injustice may be curbed. Yes, this is my story. Though, I am more than aware of Groucho Marx’s claim: When a person starts writing his memoirs, it’s a sure sign he’s washed up!

To this, I laugh. Screwed up I may be, but not washed up.

~

Chapter One

'Laws are like cobwebs, which may catch small flies but let wasps and hornets break through'

~ Jonathan Swift

Manufacturing monsters. The prison system is a vicious circle, a downward spiral of infinite design; crime and violence breed together behind the bars, growing like a virus on a Petri dish.

As a prison officer for Her Majesty’s prisons for six years, I’ve done my time. Inmates call you a ‘Screw’ and threaten physical harm. Yet, I never expected that the worst beating in my entire life would be at the hands of my fellow employees, the other officers I worked with.

I lay there, confused at the sudden turn of events, in a pool of my own blood, defenceless to their ongoing assault. Four on one; at least four. Fists raining down on my body. What had I done to deserve this? Was it because of my heritage (born to a Scottish mother and Nigerian father)? Was it because of my race? Or was it because I could see right through them?

My whole demeanour had changed ever since the day that Lumumber died. Two years prior to my cruel beating, I saw him being taken away by prison officers – that was the last time I saw him alive. ‘Unlawful killing’ was the verdict. That’s when I started to see things differently. Really differently.

I have always held an outlook that is perhaps more philosophical than the other officers in the prison service. I raised eyebrows and asked questions. Sometimes sticky questions, which perhaps would result in my eventual exit from my employment – effectively disabled out of injury and reaction to the farce that surrounded the eventual fates of my attackers…

Without warning, in the early hours of December 17th 1994, the pain would be instantaneous and unbearable. Moments before this life-changing turn of events, I was bored but intact. It was a cool night, and upon collecting my blue overcoat from the bar, I scanned the crowd of some 150 good-time colleagues and guests who were partying, with Christmas joy, at the annual bash hosted by the administrative department of Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville.

The music was loud, and my vision squinty, against the cigarette smoke and depth of the hall. Where the hell was Ike? He had promised me a lift and I was relieved to be going home soon. These official functions always left me cold, but I’d been touched that the entry fee would be donated to charity and had promised the admin staff my attendance in acknowledgement of our good working relationship.

An officer I knew vaguely as David approached me with a toothy smile. Hi Mick, can I have a word? He put his arm around my shoulder, steering me towards the exit.

The season of goodwill. Sure, I replied, thinking nothing of it. We stepped out into the half-lit corridor between the function hall and the bar, the atmosphere contrasting with the animated mood of gaiety and bonhomie emanating from the festivities.

As I turned my face, David grabbed me by the throat. His nails scrapped my wind pipe and his grip began to close. Then, both of my arms were locked in a classic ‘control and restraint’ manoeuvre (one of the techniques developed by the Prison Service to control violent inmates - usually involving three officers, two controlling the arms in wrist locks and the third cradling the head to avoid injury in the course of the struggle)From behind.

I gasped, partly in shock but mostly due to the abrupt restriction on my air. It was all so sudden, so unexpected. Initially, I was more taken aback than frightened. Of course, it must be a practical joke. A stupid and thoughtless practical joke; the result of too much booze and heightened sense of camaraderie. Right?

Looking bleakly around within the limits of my constriction for a smiling face or even straining my ears for a jolly laugh, it was only when I clapped my eyes on David’s malice-filled pupils that I realised his whole face was an unmistakable mask of menace. I was paralysed on the spot even before I was pinned on both sides by the locks, held rigidly upright by my throat. In my confusion and panic, I started to struggle; a natural instinct when trapped and unable to budge.

As the hopelessness of my situation washed over me, a voice in my head squeaked, Why? - knowing that it was a question that was unlikely to ever be answered.

~

The slam of the metal doors. The stale smell of the cells. The prisoners who bite and shout.

I’ve seen the new inmates arrive; sentenced for petty non-violent crimes, later emerging from prison as hardcore criminals; more violent than before, a product of the system.

Should I be surprised that the officers, like sponges, are soaked in this violence, too? After a while, you either accept it, or object to it. I would opt for the latter, ultimately, much to the dismay of my superiors; no wonder they wanted me gone. But, really, had it come to this?

With one hand, being offered drinks and a meal to say ‘Merry Christmas’ and with the other hand, plunging a knife into my still-beating heart…

~

As I struggled, I should have recognised the futility of such action, room for any effective movement was too small, the pressure on my throat defied resistance, and the locks on my arms were utterly disabling.

With rank breath that reeked of whiskey and hatred, my assailants were tough and brawny, as befits those eligible for law enforcement in the penal system, which hardly entertains dainty Cinderellas. Recognising my horrifying predicament, I heard myself cry out my internal concerns: What? Why? With the grip on my throat allowing minimal movement I was forced to look into David’s hate filled eyes. He began to breathe heavily and next thing David’s forehead smashed into my face just above the left cheekbone. My head felt as if it would split in half. The pain came in waves as he continued to butt me in the face like an enraged rhino. On the fourth assault, time went into slow motion as an inner voice screamed a chilling realisation – These guys mean to kill you!

Call it some primordial survival instinct, call it training or intuition, I went limp and as the grips on my arms slackened, using the wall behind me as a springboard, I lunged forward suddenly and grabbed David by his throat, in a final desperate attempt.

David gave a surprised yelp, screaming, Get him off me! He was falling backwards. Falling. Falling.

We hit the ground in a tangled heap. As more blows pummelled me, I tucked myself into a ball, another instinct, as well as a planned manoeuvre to present a smaller target.

Then, in the ensuing pandemonium, one of the side doors burst open and presented a miraculous escape route. The light poured over me and I moved towards it. I dived out.

~

Many times, I’ve been threatened with bodily harm. In the course of my work as a prison officer, it’s a risky business.

I had initially been inspired to make a constructive contribution towards easing the plight of the kind of people I knew and grew up with, and consequently was encouraged to enter the prison service in 1990, little believing that I myself would ultimately become the victim of the kind of vicious delinquency I had come to purge inmates of - by fellow officers of all people! And to cap it all, their criminality would be denied all the way up the halls of justice.

Here it was, death staring me so closely in the face. After all the ‘bad men’ I’ve seen incarcerated, I had never even given a second thought of an attack outside of the prison, an unprovoked attack by the ‘good men’ who supposedly protect our society from the worst criminals.

Dostoyevsky, the author of Crime and Punishment, once observed that: The degree of civilisation in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.

In Britain, we have approximately 77,000 inmates in captivity; in fact, we imprison